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The Tangmere Logbook Magazine of the Tangmere Military Aviation Museum Autumn 2015 Jet-to-Jet Air Combat in Korea Robin Olds at Tangmere • Escape across Germany Tangmere Military Aviation Museum Trust Company Limited Patron: The Duke of Richmond and Gordon Hon. President: Air Marshal Sir Dusty Miller, KBE Hon. Life Vice-President: Alan Bower Hon. Life Vice-President: Duncan Simpson, OBE Council of Trustees Chairman: Group Captain David Baron, OBE David Burleigh, MBE Reginald Byron David Coxon Dudley Hooley Peter Lee Ken Shepherd Bill Walker Joyce Warren Officers of the Company Hon. Treasurer: Ken Shepherd Hon. Secretary: Joyce Warren Management Team Director: Dudley Hooley Curator: David Coxon General Manager: Peter Lee Engineering Manager: Reg Lambird Events Manager: David Burleigh, MBE Publicity Manager: Cherry Greveson Staffing Manager: Len Outridge Treasurer: Ken Shepherd Shop Manager: Sheila Shepherd Registered in England and Wales as a Charity Charity Commission Registration Number 299327 Registered Office: Tangmere, near Chichester, West Sussex PO20 2ES, England Telephone: 01243 790090 Fax: 01243 789490 Website: www.tangmere-museum.org.uk E-mail: [email protected] 2 The Tangmere Logbook The Tangmere Logbook Magazine of the Tangmere Military Aviation Museum Autumn 2015 Getting Used to It 4 And trying to keep up with the other chaps Robin Olds Making Tracks 12 Part Three of an account of my escape from captivity James Atterby McCairns MiG Alley 23 Jet fighters meet in combat for the first time Matt Wright Letters, Notes, and Queries 28 Korea: the RAF’s presence; answer to our last Photo Quiz; and a new brain teaser Published by the Society of Friends of the Tangmere Military Aviation Museum, Tangmere, near Chichester, West Sussex PO20 2ES, England Edited by Dr Reginald Byron, who may be contacted care of the Museum at the postal address given above, or by e-mail at [email protected] Copyright © 2015 by the Tangmere Military Aviation Museum Trust Company All rights reserved. ISSN 1756-0039 Getting Used to It Robin Olds The next morning I sat at breakfast with decidedly more confidence. Several members of the mess actually said a cheery good morning. This offset a noticeable rattling of newspapers in other quarters, a sound oddly conveying irritation. It made me remem- ber those occasions during the war when I would settle into a seat in a first-class car- riage on the Ipswich-London 8.10 train. All of us were aware of the Englishmen’s opin- ion of Yanks. They looked upon us as very young, and very American. We were regu- larly described as oversexed, overpaid, and, worst of all, over there. Nothing personal was meant by this at Tangmere, but the hunching of the shoulders, the slight turn to- ward the window and, most of all, the rattle, clearly conveyed a message: “Don’t crowd me, don’t intrude on my morning routine, don’t be rude by trying to speak to me.” The reaction was one anybody feels when a stranger hogs the armrest at the movies or starts talking to him at a lunch counter, but there is something unique about the way an Eng- lishman rattles his paper, especially when he feels put-upon. The action is totally elo- quent and the message is clear. Breakfast and the weather matched each other, equally depressing. I hoped the CO was right, that I would get used to it. He meant the weather and I meant both. I real- ised I was thinking selfishly, so I turned my mind to other matters. 4 The Tangmere Logbook After the previous day’s flight the afternoon had been relatively busy and produc- tive. Over in the Orderly Room, I had met the squadron adjutant, who turned out to be the New Zealander, Flight Lieutenant H. W. B. Patterson. He had duly “posted” me in, as it was called. I was then invited to sit at a table on which were lying what looked to be four large photograph albums. These were numbered and carried the squadron in- signia and motto, “In omnibus princeps” (First in all things). Opening the first volume, I realised I was looking at the handwritten history of the unit. Patterson explained it was the adjutant’s responsibility to enter events as they occurred and photos when they were available. To tell the truth, I felt as though I were back in high school and our English teacher “Skinny” Lewis had just announced we were going to read Chaucer. I thought how my own air force unit histories were dry statistics and about as exciting and readable as le- gal notices. To my knowledge, no one outside some obscure person in the Air Univer- sity had ever even glanced at one, but these RAF volumes turned out to be marvellous. I saw how the squadron came into being in the second half of the 1800s as an obser- vation balloon company. Proud men stood stiffly at attention next to their horse-drawn equipment. Pictures showed them going aloft in baskets, looking for all the world like those used later in World War I. But these fellows wore swords with cross-belts, epau- lettes, high collars, and shakos with chin straps. The penned entries told of daily events, of mishaps, of postings in and out. A record existed here of every man who had ever been in No. 1 Squadron. Not for the first time, I thought how wonderfully different was the British sense of history. I had always thought it unfortunate that our own American squadrons didn’t have the same regard for their heritage. Going on to the second volume, I found myself deep in the agony of the First World War. The book told of missions flown, of men lost, and of their aircraft. A scrap of doped linen with a bullet hole gave testament to the end of a German opponent. There were old photos with young faces, grim and fat alistic. It made me recall my dad and his friends talking of those times and how a new pilot had a life expectancy of something like six hours on operations. Two hours passed quickly and I hadn’t finished the third book. Leaving the squadron busily active in the Middle East in the late 1920s, I knew I would be back. Now I realised what the CO had meant by “bumph.” It meant history, pride, and tradition; something to know and to feel; a basis for my own devotion to duty within the squadron. Clothing supply turned into a bit of a problem. Only one flight suit came close to fit- ting. The corporal in charge kept shaking his head and muttering about overfed and oversized Yanks. Proper gloves and a l eather helmet were easier. Then it was time for tea. Somewhat reluctantly, I went over to the mess. Tea was for ladies, or so I thought. But I knew it would be rude if I didn’t go. Besides, if I stayed away, I’d be the only one wandering about the base at that time of day. It turned out to be a wonderfully pleasant occasion. The tea was excellent and it was hot. With it we were served a slice of toast and a pat of real butter. That pat was each man’s ration for the week. Luckily, I had hit the right day. Jars of peanut butter were within reach. Though it looked plentiful, I watched the others to see how they handled things. Keith Pearch sat across from me. His butter-spreading technique was masterful. I had to ad- mire how he managed to get it evenly over the entire area of that piece of toast. Then came the peanut butter. This, too, was spread with concentration and deliberation. The Autumn 2015 5 reality of controlled rationing hit home. I gained a deeper respect for the men around me, and thought how they and their countrymen had been on strict rations since the start of the war. A sense of guilt at my own country’s bountiful plenty struck hard. I pulled my knife away from the peanut butter with the determination to learn just a little more before helping myself. Keith took a small bite, chewed slowly, had a sip of tea, and looked at me with his dark, brooding eyes. “Have a nice flight, Major?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “Good kite, the old Meteor.” There, I thought, that bit of under- statement ought to go over well. Keith didn’t stare, but I could tell he was reflecting on my answer. I thought it would be best to pull back from any further show of false bravado and added, “But I confess extreme happiness at seeing the runway once again.” This brought a smile and a knowing nod. I had said the right thing. People seemed to disappear after tea, so I went into the lounge and found a comfort- able-looking armchair at the far end of the room. I didn’t opt to settle too near the tempting fireplace for fear of taking someone’s favourite seat. This, too, seemed a good decision. As the room filled, I couldn’t tell if time on station or military rank deter- mined nearness to the fire, but there was definitely an order of precedence. I found a magazine. It wasn’t too old, about six months, and I tried to immerse myself in the so- cial happenings in Cornwall and Middlesex. The room offered the first real warmth I had enjoyed for some time and I’m afraid I dozed. I awoke as the men were leaving.

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